


The Untamed Beauty of Wildflowers

by gingersprite



Series: Wolves and Wildflowers [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Festivals, Fix-It, Gen, Politics, Sibling Bonding, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-07-10 10:50:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19904533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersprite/pseuds/gingersprite
Summary: In a post-war world, the Stark sisters have finally begun to let themselves, and their loves, heal. During Sansa's nameday celebration, two couples explore what it means to be at peace.





	1. Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pure, total, self-indulgent fluff with a side of plot and an excuse to world build. Hopefully you find it as interesting to read as I found it to write!

Catelyn Stark may have insisted on all of her children being properly blessed in the light of the Seven, but she had also accepted that they were of the North and subject to Northern customs. It was tradition that every babe, two weeks after their birth, be brought to a godswood where they were named and a lock of their hair was offered before the heart tree so the old gods would know their soul. 

Thus, age was marked by two separate days, the anniversary of their birth and their nameday. For the Northmen, a person’s natalday was not worthy of commemoration, as plenty of children were born dead or never lived to see their nameday; once a child had been named before the heart tree, however, it was now considered a proper Northman in the eyes of the old gods, which made the day a far more auspicious one.

It had been many years since Sansa had the luxury of celebrating her nameday with more than a casual acknowledgement that she had made it to see another year. As a child, her and her siblings- except poor Jon- had always been treated to a simple but enjoyable celebration, with sporting competitions, dancing, and a modest feast for nobles and smallfolk alike. Ned Stark may have been known for his Northern austerity, but he loved his children, and was smart enough to use such festivities to maintain good relationships with the vassal lords and commoners. Her memories of her past nameday celebrations were tinted now by the tragedies yet to pass, but Sansa still cherished the lovely times when her family was whole and happy.

Theon had also been there for most of her nameday celebrations and knew how bittersweet the day was to her, though the tradition itself was not found in his birth culture. The Ironborn did not have namedays, or even nataldays for that matter, in keeping with the unsentimental nature of their people. They did, however, take great pride in the constellation they were born under- which meant they knew approximately when they were born if not the exact date- and held infant baptisms to be deeply sacred events.

When they had first met, as children, Theon had been quick to boast about the fortuitous nature of his sign, a constellation which the Ironborn said resembled a pair of fish; when this failed to impress the Stark children, who were only familiar with the Northern star names, he’d then offered to assist in newborn Arya’s baptism, as he had seen his priest uncle perform them. On the islands this would have been seen as a mature and gracious task; but instead of achieving its intended effect, Catelyn interpreted it as a threat. It took a lot of cajoling on Ned’s part to convince her that Theon wasn’t plotting to drown her children, and allow him to actually be around them.

Before her father had taken her South, Sansa had been unaware that the practice of a separate nameday and natalday wasn’t recognized by followers of the Seven, and her explanation of this practice was met with mixed reactions by the Baratheon children. Sweet Myrcella had been eager to learn more about her new companion’s life, and young Tommen was just glad to be included in conversation with the older children; Joffrey, however, who scoffed at the old gods and considered all Northern traditions barbaric, had failed to see the need for such distinction.

So, Sansa had learned to keep quiet about anything too pointedly Northern, molding herself into a proper Southern woman for her prince; it stung to ignore such intrinsic parts of her life in the North, although she was able to use it to her advantage the night of her wedding to Tyrion, claiming to have not yet turned fifteen despite her natalday having recently passed. She wondered now if this was how Theon had felt as her father’s ward, pressured to chip away at the parts of him others decided were too uncivilized, selectively picking and choosing what he could keep in order to survive life in a strange new land. 

The Sansa of the past never would have imagined that now, years later, she would not only be keeping this Northern tradition, but using it in the same way her lord father did to promote good relationships with her people. Visiting nobles typically arrived within a day or two of the nameday celebration, with the actual day itself reserved for competitions; a Northern tourney was nothing like the great affairs Robert Baratheon had loved, as most Northmen saw jousting as a pointless sport. 

Sansa’s duties as queen required her to delegate the planning of the celebration to other members of the household, but she knew there would be archery, swordplay, wrestling, and knife throwing, as well as hawking and colf for the ladies; while she knew for a fact that Arya enjoyed both such sports, she was certain her sister would prefer to compete in the more rough-and-tumble games, along with Brienne and the visiting women of House Mormont.

The younger Stark daughter had arrived the night before the festivities, which was later than she had said she’d arrive, and therefor exactly when Sansa had expected; predictably, Arya and Gendry had found themselves sidetracked on their way from Storm’s End, though Sansa did not yet know what their excuse was this time. Exhausted from the various requirements of her position, Sansa had just barely managed to stay awake late enough to welcome her sister home, before Theon noticed her flagging and sent her off to bed with the promise that he would see Arya and Gendry situated. They had traveled with only a small retinue and the castle staff had prepared Arya’s old rooms in anticipation for her arrival, so the task was completed quickly and Theon returned to the queen’s chambers just as Sansa was drifting off to sleep.

Now it was morning, officially her twenty-second name day; in that time, she had experienced three wars, two marriages, countless bloodthirsty schemers, and a horde of the undead. And against all odds, she had lived to tell the tale. Her people were free, her family was happy, and every night she shared her bed with a man who was husband in her heart, if not officially. Said man was currently burrowed under a pile of blankets so immense only the top of his head poked out. Theon was always more susceptible to the cold than she was, and most of the blankets invariably ended up bunched around him, while she was usually comfortable with just the plush duvet. 

Sansa would have thought him still asleep, except when she stretched she was met by a pair of sea-green eyes drowsily blinking open. She immediately squirmed closer to him, and he in turn made an opening in his blanket cave to let her in. Her sleep-pliant limbs molded against his own, and she curled her fingers into the soft fabric of his night shirt.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked, her voice still croaky with sleep. He gave a one-armed shrug, his other hand moving to prop his head up so as to better look at her.

“Well enough. Woke up in the middle of the night, but I fell back asleep fairly quickly.” This was usually the best either of them could hope for, as they both regularly dealt with nightmares. Theon took a variety of medicinal herbs and tinctures to help with the chronic conditions left by prolonged torture, and both the symptoms and the treatment led to trouble sleeping. Sansa, meanwhile, had developed the unfortunate habit of working herself past the point of exhaustion, resulting in a dreamless sleep; Theon and Brienne had taken to sneakily undermining this behavior, each in their own ways.

“You should have woken me; you know I don’t mind.” Sansa scrutinized those beloved features, searching for any indication that he was withholding any suffering from her; but his expression was sincere, and if anything he looked rather charmed by her care for his wellbeing.

“I thought about it, really, but the way you were clinging to me made it hard for the dream to hang around. Proper little limpet, you were.” He laughed and, arm draped around her waist, slumped back against the pillows to demonstrate.

“What’s a limpet?” Sansa asked.

“A little water snail, they attach themselves to rocks and corals and the like.” Her eyes narrowed at this explanation.

“So, you’re saying I’m a snail?”

“… a very pretty snail.”

“ _Mhm._ ” The look Sansa threw his way was decidedly unimpressed. He tried again.

“Really, just the prettiest snail, the likes of which Westeros has never seen before!”

“You’re not very clever, are you?” she teased, tapping a slender finger against his jaw fondly.

“I make up for it in other ways,” he said, as he caught her hand in his own and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “I’ve been told I have a talented mouth.”

“ _Theon,_ ” she chided, but made no attempt to take back her hand. “We can’t get too carried away, it’s a busy day: I have guests to greet and a tourney to oversee. And, Menna will be up any moment now with breakfast.” Their relationship was something of an open secret, which all the servants knew of but politely kept quiet about. Or, at least, they kept their gossip on the more favorable side. Her dear Jeyne Poole, once her girlhood best friend, now the trusted head of her household staff, made sure of that. 

The irony of this situation was not lost on Sansa, as when they were children Jeyne had been quite enamored with Theon, while Sansa herself found him crass and irritating. Now, though, Jeyne was nothing but supportive of their relationship, as Sansa was in turn about her close ‘friendship’ with one Mya Stone, formerly of the Vale. It was plain to see that the two women had become inseparable, just as the Queen in the North and her Hand were.

Theon sighed dramatically. “I suppose I’ll just have to give you your present later, then.” His antics made her giggle, but then his expression became serious. “Happy nameday, Sans.”

She felt her face flush at his words, soaked in the kind of sincerity and adoration that made even the simplest of phrases mean, ‘I love you’. It was hard to remember the many duties she had for this day, and not just fall into the depths of his devotion. Which, naturally, was part of his dastardly plan to keep her all to himself for just a little longer, before the hectic events of the day kept them apart. Soon they’d both be dressed in their nicest threads for the tourney, where he was certain to trounce every other competitor in the archery round, with her favor proudly pinned to his jerkin; then in the evening, looking every bit the beautiful queen and her handsome lord, they’d share a slow dance while the minstrels played, and… well, she supposed she had better take advantage of this moment while she had the chance.

“Alright,” she huffed, pulling him in. “But we have to finish before Menna gets here; I’d hate to see her leave, I’ve grown quite fond of her.” Theon grinned widely, already tugging up her shift.

“As milady commands,” he purred, before ducking his head and getting to work.

\---

Thankfully the serving girl in question had the good sense to knock, otherwise the poor dear would have been treated to quite the eyeful. As it was, her cheeks still pinked a little upon entering the royal chambers, where she was greeted by the queen and her favorite advisor sitting across from one another in the parlor, still in their dressing gowns. If the two of them seemed rather flushed… well, as Lady Jeyne had said, that was none of her business.

The pair shared a quick, simple breakfast before Theon slipped off to his oft-neglected room to dress, and Sansa called for Jeyne and the rest of her ladies to assist her. The gown she’d chosen was of a simpler cut, a light grey with red weirwood leaves embroidered at the neck, and whimsically decorated with a litter of direwolf pups playfully chasing each other around the hem. The traditional signet ring of House Stark adorned her hand, and around her neck hung a simple silver chain with a dainty freshwater pearl. She’d chosen to forgo her wolf crown, as she preferred to only wear it during times when she needed to appear extra serious and regal, opting instead to weave a pair of dainty silvery lilac ribbons through her braids.

Dressed and polished, Sansa sent her ladies on their way and went about tracking down her sister and giving her a proper welcome home. She was surprised when Gendry answered her knock at the door, having expected the early-riser lordling to already be up and about, while the decidedly-not-an-early-riser Arya made every last minute of sleep count.

“Your grace,” he greeted, despite her repeated assurances that he call her by her name- _since we’re practically family as it is_ \- “Ah, good morrow, um, happy nameday. Arya’s not here…”

Was she imagining it, or did Gendry seem more nervous around her than he usually did? She knew he was bashful about his change in status, and about his ‘not-a-relationship’ relationship with Arya. On top of all that, Sansa knew he still found her rather intimidating, being both a queen and the older sister of ‘whatever-Arya-was’ to him; and why was he keeping the door nearly closed, filling up the space with his body so she couldn’t see even a sliver inside? Surely he and Arya hadn’t managed to make an utter mess of the room already…

“Hello, Gendry,” Sansa smiled, pretending not to notice his odd behavior. When he didn’t say anything further, she had to gently prompt him. “Well then, do you know where she went?”

“Oh! Yeah, she’s probably with the horses, summat about making sure Pod took care of ‘em proper.” Now he definitely looked nervous, tugging at the richly embroidered hem of his tunic as he shifted his feet like a boy caught in a lie, a move which looked especially awkward on a man of his stature. His head twitched, like he had to catch himself from looking back into the room at something, or someone.

“Alright then,” she said slowly, turning to leave. “I suppose I’ll go check the stables.”

“Yes m’lady, sounds good, see you inna bit!” Gendry stammered, and quickly shut the door. Sansa continued on her way, now hoping that, in addition to catching up with Arya, she’d get some explanation as to Gendry’s odd behavior.

Of course, it figured that on her way to the stables she’d find herself waylaid by Brienne. Her knight was sporting her fancy Queensguard cape, the one she only broke out for special occasions, held in place by the intricate pin that denoted her position as guard captain; Oathkeeper rested at her hip, which was usual, but today Sansa felt especially aware of the sword’s presence, as though this piece of both her parents being here made it so they too could celebrate her nameday.

“My queen, where are you going?” Normally Sansa was always glad to see her friend and protector, but right now she just wanted to find her sister before the day’s events began.

“Oh, just to find Arya-”

“No!” Brienne sputtered, her freckled face reddening with embarrassment at her own impertinence. Those startlingly blue eyes darted back and forth, as if she was searching for some clue as to what to say next. “I- erm, that is- um…”

Just then, Podrick Payne skidded around the corner, cape flapping awkwardly behind him, haphazardly secured by the cloak pin marking him as an attendant to House Baratheon.

“Ser, ser! Lady Arya said-” he cut himself off upon seeing Sansa, but the damage was done. Brienne let out a heavy sigh, to which her former squire shrugged bashfully.

“Enough!” Sansa declared, swiping her hands in a firm motion that made it clear she would tolerate no more nonsense. “Brienne, Ser Podrick, what is going on? First Gendry, now you two, and what’s this about Arya? I barely got the chance to speak with her last night and now I can’t find her, it’s like she’s avoiding me- oh _gods_ she’s pregnant, isn’t she?”

“Seven hells!” Arya swore, materializing in the corridor with the same unnatural grace that always attended her. “Can’t believe I ever thought it smart to tell you I was tumbling Gendry!” She seemed to be having a hard time making up her mind as to whether she was angered by Sansa’s assumption or thought it hysterical. Behind her came Gendry and Theon, the latter carrying a pile of blankets in his arms.

Sansa’s spiraling thoughts fled at the sight of him, looking every inch the prince that people often forgot he was. His curls were washed and styled, gleaming bronze in the morning light, and he’d trimmed his beard neatly; any sharp object near his face tended to make him anxious, so this detail brought forth an overwhelming wave of pride, as happened whenever she saw him overcome reminders of his trauma. The Greyjoy kraken was emblazoned across his fine tunic, to which he’d pinned the symbol of his position as Hand of the Queen; a warm cloak trimmed with tawny bobcat fur draped over his shoulders, accompanied by a silver direwolf pin: the same pin she’d given him when he laid close to death following his battle with the Night King.

“The two of you, _honestly!_ ” Arya groaned, shaking her from her stupor, and apparently Theon as well if the way he looked back at her was any indication. “A pair of besotted, bumbling snarks, that’s what you are! Gendry!” she pointed at said man, who, rather than being rightfully frightened of her, looked only mildly amused. 

“You couldn’t have acted even _more_ suspicious? And you!” she rounded on Pod next, making him audibly gulp. “Can’t keep a secret to save your life, huh? Gave you one job!”

Flinging an arm dramatically across her eyes, she pulled Theon out from behind her and shoved him forward. “Months of planning, utterly pointless! Go on, Greyjoy, you might as well do the honors!”

Now that Sansa looked closer, it seemed that the blankets in Theon’s arms were… _moving?_

“Happy nameday, Sans,” he said, pulling down the blanket to reveal a squirming wolf pup. Its fur was a light grey color, pale but not the unnatural pure white of Ghost’s, with bright blue eyes and a mottled nose in the process of turning from its baby pink to adult black. The fluffy tip of its tail poked out, thumping against Theon’s arm in excitement; it paused, ears laid back as its mouth split open in a great big yawn to reveal rows of tiny milk teeth, before snapping closed and making several satisfied lip smacks.

Sansa couldn’t help it: she squealed.

“A puppy!” She reached out for it with grabby fingers; decidedly unbecoming of a queen, but they all let it slide. Theon carefully deposited it in her arms, and the little creature eagerly curled into her chest and licked her chin.

“She’s one of Nymeria’s pups,” Arya explained, giving up her feigned annoyance in the face of her sister’s joy. “The sire’s a regular wolf, so she won’t get as big as a full-blooded direwolf. She was actually kind of runty when we got her, but she grew quite a bit since then, so who knows?”

The pup continued to wriggle with delight in Sansa’s arms, panting from all the excitement. She had already been fitted with a collar and leash, so Sansa felt it safe to set her down to sniff at everyone’s shoes.

“How do you know she’s one of Nymeria’s?” 

Arya answered with a lazy shrug, saying, “Just do. You like your gift or what?” 

Her arms now free, Sansa pulled her sister into a tight hug; Arya made a token grumble, but melted into the embrace. Arya never initiated physical affection with her, but would always accept it if she was offered. For all of the changes the two of them had undergone during their time separated, Sansa was glad that her little sister still fit so neatly in her arms, head tucked under her chin. It made her think that there was still time for them to have the relationship they should have had all along, for her to be a proper older sister. 

Sansa took advantage of the moment to plant a kiss on Arya’s crown, which the younger girl responded to by squirming out of the embrace, making exaggerated noises of disgust. Everyone else laughed at this display, except Gendry, who Sansa spied looking utterly charmed by Arya’s antics. The pup, having realized that she was no longer the center of attention and deciding that this would simply not do, began yipping and begging for more cuddles: which Sansa was more than happy to give.

“I wouldn’t have thought Nymeria would let anyone take one of her pups,” Sansa said, feigning an air of offhandedness; in actuality, she suspected that the ferocious direwolf only gave up this pup because of the strange connection she and Arya shared. Arya was noticeably tightlipped about the subject with her, having only vaguely addressed her wolf-dreams on one other occasion. Judging now by her quirked eyebrow, Arya knew exactly what her sister was trying to get at.

“The others, maybe. This one is meant for you, though. She told me as much.” Arya said; and with that, Sansa knew that was all she’d be getting on the subject. For now.

“What will you call her?” Pod asked.

“That’s a good question, Ser Podrick.” The young knight smiled broadly at the sound of his new title, as he always did; which was why Sansa made sure to use it whenever they had cause to meet. That, and because every time she did so, Brienne seemed to puff up a little with pride, though she would never admit it.

“A little treasure like this needs a fitting name,” Sansa continued on. “I think I’ll call her Pearl.” The pup stopped her squirming at the sound of her new name; when her eyes met Sansa’s, they suddenly seemed far older than they had before. Now when she looked at her new companion, Sansa saw a glimpse of the wild creature that had birthed her, and maybe even a hint of her dear Lady’s sweetness.

“Thank you, Arya. Truly, I didn’t know how much I’d missed having a pet until now.” Sansa explained, to which her sister laughed.

“You won’t be thanking me next time that little terror needs a bath: that’s what I was doing when you came by the rooms. She’s, ah, not completely house trained yet.” Arya shrugged, not looking the least bit apologetic, but Sansa couldn’t bring herself to care. At the tender age of thirteen she’d trained Lady to be as proper and well-behaved as the name implied; she trusted she could do the same with Pearl.

“Your Grace, if I might interrupt?” Brienne said, her tone as proper as ever though her eyes betrayed her own delight at the adorable little direwolf. “We had best go so you may greet your guests and begin the tourney. Shall I have someone bring the pup- ah, Pearl- to your chambers?”

“No need; if she’s to accompany me everywhere she had best get used to crowds, and where better to start than during a festival where she can yip as much as she likes without causing a disturbance?” Sansa explained. “I can have Jeyne or Mya take her in if it all gets to be too much for her.” 

At this, Pearl gave her the kind of look Lady used to give, one which seemed far more humanlike than a direwolf had any right to be. Pearl clearly had no intention of going anywhere without her new mistress, especially not when there was currently a castle full of people eager to give her pats and, hopefully, drop some scraps her way.

As for the rest, however, Brienne was right; although this festival was supposedly in her honor, Sansa had to return to her duties. Shifting Pearl to rest against her hip, her free hand took the arm Theon offered without her needing to say a word. Though the torture he had suffered meant he no longer stood as tall as he once had, he was strong and steady and at her side, right where he belonged. 

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Arya tug a slightly lost-looking Gendry’s arm down and position it correctly; since being legitimized he had begun growing into a fine young lord, but formal events such as this tended to throw him off still. With just a look Sansa could tell that Theon had also seen this, and the two of them fought to keep their faces straight at the tiny assassin directing her much taller paramour with no effort at all.

As the party began their walk, Brienne leading and Pod bringing up the rear, Pearl wiggled as if to be closer to Theon, but Sansa kept her firmly in place at her other side. She glanced at him, suddenly concerned as a thought came to her: Theon may have been comfortable carrying the pup for a bit, but she wouldn’t be this small forever, and Sansa intended to keep her at her side always. Like the ancient Kings of Winter before her; like Robb.

“Are you going to be alright with her, especially once she’s bigger?” she whispered, bending her head toward his. “I know you’ve had your issues with dogs…” She trailed off, not wanting to spoil the day with bad memories, but Theon shook his head and smiled with soft understanding.

“We’ll be fine; it wasn’t all dogs, just those ones. Besides,” he paused, bringing her hand up to press a tender kiss on the back. “She’s not a dog is she? She’s a wolf. And perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I happen to be quite fond of wolves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title inspired by a quote by Lady Bird Johnson: "Almost every person, from childhood, has been touched by the untamed beauty of wildflowers."
> 
> I've always been intrigued by the differences between the various people of Westeros, which led me to create some of the cultural elements that were loosely inspired by real-world birthday traditions (my bachelor's is in anthropology so that's where my mind is always at!). It's actually very common in many cultures for people to not know the exact day they were born on, or to celebrate another date that holds more meaning to them like a naming ceremony.
> 
> "Colf" was a medieval game popular among noble women, like hawking was; as the name suggests, it's an ancestor of modern-day golf.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter chapter here since Arya isn't as long winded as Sansa (plus since I'm still figuring out how to write her, I felt a shorter chapter was preferable to one that was forcibly drawn out). _But_ , that means there will be at least a third chapter to this story! Yay! (?)

Gendry was doing that thing he did when he was uncomfortable, that awkward shifting from foot to foot like he’d forgotten how to stand like a normal person. She kept having to pinch him to get it to stop. Usually Arya would have let him be, but with her arm in his, all the movement made her feel like she was back on a ship. It had been a year since she’d run away from him, terrified by the vulnerability she felt in the wake of his proposal, only to return to him six months later like nothing had happened. 

At first she had just been thankful that he’d been as eager as she was to just ignore all that unpleasantness and dive back into their relationship, but lately she had begun feeling restless again. Maybe it was how easily Gendry accepted her desire to flout established social codes in maintaining their slightly unconventional relationship; or the way he took her strange wolf dreams in stride, never once acting afraid of her, merely curious; perhaps it was that he ordered no harm be done to the wolf pack that had taken up residence in the Kingswood, so long as Arya ensured through her connection with Nymeria that the wolves would only go after wild game and not livestock. That Gendry had trusted her to follow through on such a bargain, which others would have dismissed as crazy, only made her love him more.

The past few months had brought her more joy than she’d thought possible, after her world came to a grinding halt on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor. She would never be a genteel lady like her mother and sister, but she remembered what her septa had struggled to teach her about running a holdfast and had put it to use helping the people of the Stormlands. Like all regions, they had suffered greatly under Lannister misrule; the Dragon Queen had certainly been of no help with that.

Gendry desperately wanted to help the common folk he was now tasked with ruling, but the position of lord paramount was a massive change from blacksmithing. He’d found he was more than comfortable deferring to Arya on the matters she was more knowledgeable of, which in time had shrunk from a great many to only a few niche areas: Gendry had always been a quick study, when given the chance.

Ser Davos had been a gods-send for both of them during this time; he had taught Gendry to read without making him feel embarrassed or stupid, helping to smooth the transition from commoner to nobleman, while providing the sort of fatherly presence Arya had never expected to again feel. The minor lords may have squawked at him for entrusting Storm’s End to a former smuggler while he was away, but privately Gendry thought one Davos Seaworth to be worth ten spoiled nobles any day. Arya was in agreement with him, and much less inclined to keep that opinion quiet.

When Arya had told him she planned to gift Nymeria’s pup to Sansa for her nameday, he had been more than willing to help strengthen the runty little creature, feeding it by the bottle and caring for it when it took ill. Together they’d helped it grow from the runt of the litter to the energetic pup it was now. Watching him with the pup had brought out curious feelings in her, ones she couldn’t name. It was… unsettling, to say the least. Sometimes she looked at him and could feel herself wanting something else, something more; but she had no idea how to broach the subject with him. How could she even consider asking him for more, when he had already given her everything she had ever dared hope for?

Today- in between her feverishly cleaning up the pup following its little ‘accident’ while demanding he keep Sansa busy as she struggled to keep the pup quiet, then her snappishly ordering Theon and Pod to find the collar and leash which the knight had misplaced while unpacking- Arya had caught Gendry looking at her differently. Had he not had that look even while she was wrestling with a slippery, sudsy direwolf pup, she might have chalked it up to the uncharacteristically fancy dress she’d donned for the occasion. If that had been the case then she wouldn’t have blamed him, as it was quite a change from her preferred breeches and tunic. Arya knew she could never hope to match the ease with which her sister wore those beautiful outfits, but today she had the bizarre urge to look a little more polished than usual. 

Of course, she planned to immediately shed the finery once they’d gotten through the morning’s boring niceties, so she could properly smoke the competition with her water dancing. But for now, she looked the proper lady her mother had always despaired of making her.

The dress she’d chosen was Stark grey, the fabric sturdy and unembroidered but beautifully constructed, a pattern of black diamonds woven throughout. The skirt was longer than she usually liked but made bearable by a hidden slit up the side that gave her greater range of movement, and the sleeves hugged her arms instead of drooping downwards like fashionable ladies preferred. As always, she had her Needle sat at her hip.

It was the capelet that really drew the eye, a piece Sansa had constructed for her: a deep, dark grey cloth, with intricate golden embroidery around the high collar and edges. Arya was rather fond of the garment now, though she had actually scowled when her sister first presented it to her.

(“Why is it Baratheon colors?” she had snapped. Sansa’s eyes widened, as if she was offended by the accusation.

“Don’t be silly, it’s clearly Stark colors,” she’d said, looking shocked at the very suggestion.

“It’s _clearly_ black!”

“That’s not black, it’s charcoal.”

“Oh, and the gold?” Arya scoffed.

“No House has a monopoly on gold, Arya.”

“Seven hells, Sansa, you’ve put _antlers_ all over it!”

“Have not. Look at the little leaves, they’re clearly branches.” Sansa had her there: sure enough, a few of the ‘not-antlers’ antlers ended in delicate leaves. “If you don’t like it you don’t have to keep it, I’m sure I can find another use for the fabric…”

She kept the capelet. Never let it be said that Arya Stark ever backed down from a dare, especially not one posed by her smarmy, duplicitous, _insufferable_ older sister.)

Gendry, for his part, hadn’t said anything about the capelet, though he’d smiled a knowing little smile until Arya shoved him. He had that same look now, but in the interest of keeping things civil she let it be. The great hall was currently a mess, packed with Winterfell’s servants attending to visiting Northern nobles and their entourages, who were milling around, breaking their fast, all while waiting to pay their respects to Queen Sansa.

Gods but that was such a weird thing to think. Growing up, the Kings and Queens of Winter had just been stories Old Nan told them, and they hadn’t even been the better stories; always fraught with boring politics and melodramatic notions of honor. But, considering how the more popular of Old Nan’s stories had come to life, perhaps it was fitting that this one had too.

Arya and Gendry hung off to the side, the better to observe the political dance occurring without getting sucked in. As her gaze roved over the crowd, her old lessons with Maester Luwin came back to her: among them she saw the silver gauntlet of House Glover, the moose of House Hornwood; the merling of House Manderly, and the Mormont black bear. Pod had hung around with the two of them, until Brienne had called him away to join in conversation with their fellow knights, members of the visiting vassal lords’ households, and the late lady Lyanna Mormont’s cousins Alysane and Jorelle.

“When do we get to the ‘tourney’ part of this tourney?” Gendry mumbled to her, doing his best to hide his discomfort.

“Since when are you such a fan of sports?” Arya quipped in a blatant attempt to put him at ease.

“Not all sports; just the ones you partake in,” he replied, giving her a playful nudge with his arm. “I’m sure you’ll be a vision with that flower crown, after you’ve knocked all your poor opponents in the mud.”

“Oh no, the crowns aren’t for the winners,” she corrected. “They’re for their ladies.” When her father had held their nameday tourneys, he had always insisted on multiple crowns being given out, a departure from the Southern tradition of crowning a single queen of love and beauty; Arya had never questioned this as a child, but now that she knew the truth of Jon’s parentage, Ned’s reasoning was painfully clear.

“So I’m to be your lady then, m’lady?” 

“If the crown fits, _milady._ ”

“You’d best pick the prettiest crown for me then, I won’t be having the other ladies showing me up!” Now Gendry was finally smiling for real, instead of that pained grimace he’d worn before; clearly their banter had helped to put him at ease, just as she’d planned. These sorts of events just made him self-conscious, which Arya understood but found to be completely unnecessary. Arya knew firsthand that Gendry could be just as charming as any highborn, more so even because he didn’t have to force it. 

The two of them could have happily avoided the other guests until the games started, if not for the appearance of a familiar face.

“Gendry, Lady Arya!” Willas Tyrell called out, crossing the hall to join them. On another man the walk might have looked painful, but Willas was so adept with his crutch that he managed to make his lurching steps seem natural. The lord of Highgarden was slightly older than them both, but he and Gendry had quickly formed a friendship. As a cripple and a (legitimized) bastard, they were much more comfortable with each other than with the snobbish lords who looked down on them both.

“Hello, Will,” Gendry waved him over to them, pulling him into that back-thumping hug men always did. Willas then turned to Arya and pressed a genteel kiss to the back of her hand, always the proper Southern lord. “Didn’t expect to see you this far North.”

“I thought it was about time I paid my respects to the Queen in the North,” Willas explained smoothly. “House Tyrell may be under the protection of Queen Daenerys, but that’s no reason for rudeness towards our Northern neighbors.”

What went unsaid was that the unrest in King’s Landing had led many nobles to reexamine their loyalties; as the last member of his House, Willas had extra incentive to hedge his bets.

 _‘Ah, politics.’_ Arya mused.

“It’s a long way from Highgarden to Winterfell, especially just to say something that could easily be said through a raven.” Arya said smoothly, her face impassive. Sansa might have been the political savant, but Arya could play the game as well.

“I’ll admit, it made for a nice excuse to see the beautiful Northern wilderness,” Willas replied. “And who doesn’t enjoy a good tourney? Besides,” the young lord’s cheeks pinked just the slightest, his genial façade slipping a tad. “I will finally get the chance to see Ser Brienne of Tarth in action. My dear grandmother always spoke so highly of her.”

Willas turned to look at the lady knight, who was talking with Jorelle Mormont. Brienne had grown her hair out some since Arya had last seen her: not so much that it would be a bother, but enough that she could pull the front pieces back in a small plait, a sprig of heather tucked behind her ear. In the years since her knighting, Brienne no longer stood like she was trying to fade into the background: she still the same humble soul, but she wore a new confidence about her, one that said that she knew her worth and didn’t need anyone else’s approval.

“She likes horses.” Gendry said nonchalantly.

“Oh?” Willas turned back to him, his expression that of a man trying desperately to contain his eagerness. Willas could- and had, in fact- talk about horses for hours, which made this the perfect conversation starter.

“Aye. Go on now, mate, before the games start up.” At Gendry’s encouragement, Willas nodded and, straightening himself as best as he could, limped off in Brienne’s direction, the usual clumping sound of his leg brace drowned out by the sea of voices in the great hall. Once Willas was out of earshot, Arya and Gendry shared a look before bursting into stifled laughter.

“Bet you he backs out.” Arya challenged.

“I know better than to make a wager with you, especially when you already owe me a flower crown,” Gendry teased. Arya’s uncanny knack for identifying others tells had previously led to her being banned from card games at Storm’s End, and if she kept up her winning streak soon no one would risk gambling with her at all. “But if I were to take that bet, I’d win.” 

Arya smirked. “Sure you would, milady. Sure you would.”

\---

Winterfell’s training yards had been altered to better hold the tourney, with a stage and tiered seats having been erected to allow audience members a better view. A chair in the very most center had been clearly set aside for Sansa, as it was decorated with ribbons and greenery; next to it was a rack of flower crowns, freshly picked from the glass gardens. The bridges were packed with castle staff and members of the visiting nobles’ households, all eager for a glimpse of the festivities.

Seats next to Sansa’s had been chosen for Gendry and Arya, even though Arya didn’t plan to be sitting for very long. She went to warm up, having sent Gendry off to sit with Sansa and Theon; the two were currently busy flirting under the pretext of having a private discussion between the queen and her Hand. Arya might have been young when her father took her South, but she would have remembered if Ned and Robert Baratheon regularly held hands and whispered in the other’s ear. 

And the _giggling!_ Gods, those two really were deluding themselves if they thought they were being subtle. Thankfully she didn’t have to watch this display for long, as the tourney was about to begin.

Once the heralds sounded and Sansa began her welcoming speech (which Arya studiously tuned out, focusing entirely on working through her drills), Theon joined her on the sidelines with the other competitors. He nodded shyly at her, and she politely returned the greeting, albeit stiffly.

Arya had never been one to forgive easily, even as a child scampering about the halls of Winterfell, ignorant of the world’s horrors; it was simply not in her nature. A part of her suspected she would never forgive Theon for his betrayal, but she made the effort for Sansa, and possibly for herself as well. Despite his callous treatment of Jon, Arya had always liked Theon as a child, always smiling and quick to jest. He had turned a blind eye to her practice of pilfering his arrows from the armory, and even gave her archery pointers on occasion. His smile was not so carefree as it had been, but it seemed more genuine now.

The herald called for the first competition- archery- to begin, and Theon took his place alongside the other archers.

“I heard the Bolton Bastard took some of Lord Greyjoy’s fingers.” Arya heard, whispered from somewhere behind her.

“Doesn’t seem to have put him at a disadvantage,” the first speaker’s companion replied. “He certainly lives up to the legend.”

They weren’t wrong: every draw was fluid, the release smooth and sure, and each arrow flew true as if magnetically drawn to the target’s center. Theon made every move seem effortless, even amongst a group of skilled archers. Once, he might have whooped and gloated at every point gained; now he just smiled a little at the cheers, never breaking his focus.

“You know he held the Night King off until Princess Arya got there…”

Arya felt a lump rise in her throat at that. She knew that her actions that night had already become the stuff of legend, that bards had already composed songs and ballads about her, where they called her ‘the Hero of the Long Night’. Those were some of the tamer ones: some of the more imaginative songs claimed that she had skin-changed and gone into battle as a wolf, or grown wings and flown. It was one thing to know such stories existed, and quite another to encounter them for herself.

She didn’t like to think about that night, or the things she had done; as a child all she had wanted was to be like the warrior women in her favorite stories, free to roam and fight for justice. Now that she had become one of those heroines, she could hardly stand to think about her past deeds. At the time, it had never been about being the kind of hero that inspired epics and stories; for so long, all Arya had wanted was just to go home. Well, she had done that, along with a few notable moments along the way. That was how all the best stories went, right? She had become the hero of her own story, but the thought filled her with dread rather than pride.

The lump seemed to spread to her chest, a tightness that grew until she couldn’t bear to hear this talk a moment longer. She moved off to stand by the Mormonts, steadfastly refusing to look at the gossipers. At least Alysane and Jorelle could be trusted not to blather on.

The archery competition continued, but it was apparent from early on that Theon would be victorious; and sure enough, by the end of the round, Theon was declared the winner. Out of the entire audience Sansa clapped the loudest, jumping to her feet as if unable to contain her pride. When Theon received his winning wreath, he immediately offered it to Sansa, the look of adoration on his face obvious even from where Arya stood several yards away. When Sansa let him crown her, she wore a matching expression, looking utterly besotted.

It shouldn’t have worried Arya, but it did. Sure, none of this was technically improper: Theon did not have a lady wife, and as the first winner of Sansa’s nameday tourney it seemed fitting that he give her his prize. Anyone who didn’t know them would think it a perfectly respectable interaction between the queen and her advisor, though they’d have to be blind or simple.

 _‘Or perhaps both.’_ Arya thought, watching how their hands came to rest together once Theon had resumed his seat. She may not have been a politician, but Arya knew well enough that when Sansa did marry, it would be a match made for the good of the North, not for herself. Arya supposed that she was lucky, free to love Gendry without all that marriage nonsense. Marriage meant being forced to be a lady, shut up in a castle with no chance for exploration or adventure. She had sworn that that would never be her lot in life: she would never marry any man, not even Gendry. When she had told him as such, he had understood, and promised to never pressure her for marriage. It was what she had wanted.

So, why did the thought make her heart sink so?

Arya shook her head, clearing the thoughts from her mind like a wet dog shaking water from its ears. This was a foolish topic to dwell on, and it did her no good to let it distract her. The squires and stable hands were clearing the courtyard and preparing for the fencing match. Her competitors might be good fighters, but Arya had no intention on losing to any of them, especially not when she had promised Gendry a crown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a little concerned both with this chapter and the previous one that Pod would come off as some sort of incompetent buffoon, so let me just state here: Pod is perfectly competent at his job, Arya is just stressing over the small stuff and blowing perfectly reasonable mistakes out of proportion. Likewise, Gendry is dealing with a massive learning curve and feeling like a fish out of water, but he's doing a fantastic job, as I hope this chapter shows.


	3. Part Three

To no one’s surprise, Arya won the fencing portion of the tourney, and Gendry proudly wore the crown of flowers she’d won him. It made for quite the sight, a young man of Gendry’s size and strength wearing a delicate wreath crafted for a lady, but only a fool would have hassled him about it.

Everyone was surprised, however, when Arya agreed to go hawking with Sansa. Having already assumed what her answer would be, Sansa had invited her just on the off chance she would change her mind. Instead of turning her down in favor of whatever it was Arya liked to do for fun, the two of them were now heading off with their party of fellow noblewomen into the wolfswood. Sansa carried a peregrine falcon, the species having always been her favorite to hunt with, while Arya had chosen a sparrowhawk from the castle’s aviary.

Sansa had considered inviting Brienne along with them, not as a guard but as a participant, but she had spotted her knight engaged in conversation with Willas Tyrell. The young lord was as beautiful as his siblings had been, though he did not exude Margaery’s poise or Loras’ ego; he seemed friendly enough, but in a quieter, softer way. Had she detected any hint of discomfort on Brienne’s part, Sansa would have used the hawking as an excuse to rescue her, but this did not seem the case; in fact, as Brienne chatted and even laughed with Willas, she looked lighter than she had in some time.

No one knew with any certainty what intentions had gone through Jaime Lannister’s mind when he rode to King’s Landing for the last time; and while wild rumors circulated about the condition his and Cersei’s bodies had been found in the debris of the Red Keep, (his flesh hand wrapped around her neck, milk-white flesh marred by bruises, the bone beneath crushed in a manner not explainable by the rubble around them), the full truth was lost forever.

Sansa doubted she would ever understand what Brienne had felt for Jaime, but she knew there were many who would say the same about her relationship with Theon; at the end of the day, she found she was tired of trying to pass judgement on dead men, and had instead put her effort towards comforting her grieving friend. Brienne had approached her grief with her usual stoicism, throwing herself headfirst into her duties, all while pretending she was fine.

The terrible tragedy of people like Brienne, those devoted souls who lived to serve a higher cause, was that they often came to the conclusion that their own feelings were unimportant. It broke Sansa’s heart to see someone who had become so dear to her struggle in this way, but she couldn’t bring Jaime back, or tell Brienne what to make of the complicated feelings the two of them had shared. 

However, perhaps some time with Willas could remind Brienne that she deserved to have her own love story. If such a thing was possible, then Sansa wouldn’t stand in the way of it.

None of their compatriots were women Sansa knew well, though she had made a concerted effort to change that during this week of celebration. People always thought that it was men who made big changes happen, however just as often it was women who altered the courses of history. Cersei should have known that better than anyone, but she was too blinded by her hubris to see others’ strengths; Sansa would never let herself be that kind of queen, looking down her nose at her own people.

Jorelle Mormont had chosen to stay at Winterfell, while Alysane accompanied them along with her young daughter Lyra; a girl of nine, she was just learning the art of hawking under the watchful eyes of her mother. The hawking party also included Wylla and Wynafryd Manderly, and ladies Berena Hornwood and Sybelle Glover. The two sisters were as different from one another as Arya and Sansa had always seemed to be, with the poised elder Wyn being constantly annoyed by the younger Wyl’s headstrong attitude. 

The seven ladies, plus little Lyra, along with their guards made for a decently sized party, but it still seemed much too large to Sansa. When Catelyn had taken her and Arya hawking as girls, it had always been just the three of them, with the additional guard or two. Watching Alysane patiently explaining the sport to her little daughter brought a pang to her chest, as Sansa thought about how much her mother had cherished this time with her girls. She had the sudden urge to take Arya and break away from the party, perhaps some desperate attempt at recreating those beloved memories, despite missing one very important, irreplaceable member.

Drawing her horse up alongside Arya’s, Sansa leaned over and murmured, “What’s say we go off on our own, for a bit?”

“You can’t just leave your guards, Sansa, you’re the _queen_.”

“We never took many guards into the wolfswood as children, just Jory, maybe Wyle and Heward. Besides,” she countered. “I’ll have you to protect me.” 

Arya grumbled a little at her, but her smile betrayed her delight at the unexpected compliment. Sansa had been working at this as well, telling her siblings how much they meant to her; mostly just Arya, but Jon as well (when he could escape the stifling atmosphere of King’s Landing and his dragon queen’s affections), and she would do so with Bran once he finally found whatever he and Meera Reed had gone searching for and came home.

With a quiet word to Pod, the two slipped away from the party while the others were distracted by Wyn and Wyl’s arguing. As Sansa and Arya rode deeper into the wolfswood, they were blanketed by a heady though not uncomfortable silence, broken only by the tinkling bells strapped to their birds’ ankles.

“So, what inspired this little break-away?” Arya asked.

Sansa shrugged, careful not to upset her falcon. “I’ve just been thinking… do you remember when Mother would take us hawking?”

“’Course; you’d always cry when your bird brought back a rabbit.” She teased.

“So did you!”

“Maybe so,” Arya admitted. “But we grew out of it, eventually. Helped that rabbit is delicious.”

“Oh I know, but their little faces!” Sansa wailed, a mimicry of her child-self, making Arya laugh. Their hooded birds chirruped at that, as if chastising them for spooking potential game. Sansa reached out to where hers was perched on her saddle horn and stroked gently between the wings to calm it.

“I’m glad you decided to hold this,” Arya spoke up unexpectedly. “It’s been a while since we’ve been able to celebrate, not because we didn’t expect to survive a battle, just _because_.”

“I understand. We’ve had little reason for celebration these past years; being able to celebrate a nameday, well, it’s rather something of a novelty.” Sansa replied, feeling the weight of nearly a decades-worth of suffering lighten. “Does this mean you’ll be wanting to celebrate your next nameday here, instead of on a ship?”

Arya snorted at that. “Nah, I don’t need to have a whole tourney, unlike _some_ people,” she teased. “I’ll be happy so long as I’m able to spend it with Gendry.”

“Yes, I know the feeling,” Sansa said softly, thinking of how Arya and Gendry always appeared to be wrapped up in a world of their own, much like how she and Theon could be. “It looks like we both turned out to be luckier in love than I’d begun to believe.”

Sansa had meant for this comment to be a nice moment of reflection for the both of them, their shared joy of being young and in love after so many horrors had sought to crush their spirits; but instead, Arya’s mood seemed to sour, her expression going from relaxed and open to guarded.

“What’s wrong? Was it something I said?” she asked, hoping to regain the happier atmosphere of earlier.

“No, it’s not you, it’s just,” hesitating, Arya worried her lip as she worked through what she wanted to say. When she did speak, the words came out in a rush. 

“Are you going to marry Theon?” 

Already she was preparing herself for the answering ‘yes’, for the trial of putting her personal feelings towards Theon aside in favor of her sister’s happiness, when Sansa responded.

“No.”

“No?” Arya stammered, unsure whether she had misheard. Sansa shook her head, a further emphasis to her already brusque answer.

“Any marriage pact I made would have to be an advantageous one, for the good of the North. I am twice married, and no maiden, which would limit my prospects even despite my status. There is no political benefit to marrying Theon which I don’t already gain from having him as my Hand, and there are still many who would revolt at the idea of him being my king. I must keep myself available to future alliances, for the sake of our people.”

“And, what does Theon think of this?” she hedged.

“He understands. Besides,” Sansa added nonchalantly. “Suitors can try all they want, but I have no intention of marrying any man ever again, or in sharing my bed with anyone other than Theon.”

Shocked, Arya drew her horse to a harsh stop and stared at her sister in stunned silence.

“You- what? Did I really just hear Sansa Stark say she won’t ever marry? All you ever seemed to do as a girl was talk about your future husband, and daydream about your wedding!”

Letting out a faintly irritated sigh, Sansa pulled her horse back to face her sister.

“Things change, as you well know. This is for the best, really: besides, a queen is always stronger without a king.” Sansa explained in that patient tone she used during meetings; it was enjoyable to watch her use it against other people, but now that it was turned on her Arya found it infuriating.

“But a queen needs heirs!”

“You and Bran are my heirs, and any children either of you may have.”

“What about if you have a child by Theon? You could just legitimize it, no one would question you.” Arya saw her sister stiffen just a bit at this. She could almost see the wall Sansa was building up to protect herself, seven _hells_ this wasn’t how she had intended this talk to go.

“We can’t have children.” Sansa responded coolly, a tone which anyone except Arya would have had the good sense to back away from.

“ _You_ can’t or _he_ can’t?” Arya prodded. “I’ve heard that rumor about…”

“I can’t have any children by him, so I will bear none at all.”

“But you always wanted children-”

“And maybe I’ll have them! There are hundreds of orphans in need of loving homes!” her voice rose, becoming something close to hysterical. “But I won’t hand myself over to some stranger just so I can welp a child of my own blood.”

“But, when we were girls-”

“Things _change_ , Arya! _I’ve_ changed; and I know you have too.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Arya said, the words coming out in a low hiss.

“Why haven’t you married Gendry yet?” Sansa asked. “You love him, and he loves you.”

“We were talking about your marriage prospects, not mine.” 

“And now we are. Do you understand how rare it is for a love match to also be a smart match?”

“Love match or smart match, it’s all the same bullshit!” Arya scoffed. “Why bother changing things when what we have now is fine?” 

“Marriage will provide you both with a layer of security you don’t have as lovers, protections which will extend to any children you have. No one will be able to contest the legitimacy of your relationship, or pester you for your hand. Should needs be, our Houses can share food, supplies, even armies.”

“Just because you want to marry Theon and can’t, doesn’t mean I have to marry Gendry!” It was a low blow, and Arya knew that, but she refused to feel guilty about it. Why did Sansa always have to _push_ so? She could tell by her sister’s reaction that it had landed, but Sansa refused to let this conversation end here.

“Then why did you bring up marriage in the first place? Don’t say it was entirely about me, I know you better than that. This has been on your mind for a while.”

“I-I just…” Arya stammered, the angry flame that had urged her on sputtering out. Then Sansa smiled triumphantly, and it reignited. “That might have been all you cared about when we were little, but that was never me! I always swore that I wouldn’t let Mother and Septa turn me into something I’m not, make me some proper lady whose only job is to submit to her husband and make babies! Even Father planned to marry me off to some lord, turn me into a happy little wife, but that’s not me!”

“Do you truly think that Gendry would ask you to be anyone but yourself? If so, then I have sorely misjudged his character.” Sansa said haughtily. 

“Gendry would _never_ -” Arya snapped, preparing to defend her lover, when she realized what it was her sister was trying to do.

“Because it’s not some hypothetical lord you’ve never met that we’re talking about here, we’re talking about Gendry,” continued Sansa, gentler this time. “Gendry, who loves you exactly as you are, who wanted to marry you a year ago but accepted your rejection with grace. Did you really turn him down because you don’t want to marry him? Or have you just been clinging so tightly to the idea of what never marrying means, you don’t know what to do now that your feelings have changed?”

As much as Arya’s instinct was to lash out, to protect herself from being hurt, any argument she had against Sansa died in her throat. Because, she realized, if she said that she truly didn’t want to marry Gendry, that doing so would lead him to turn her into someone else, it would not only be a lie, but a blatant insult to the love they shared. Somewhere along the line, her resistance to marriage had morphed from a desire to make her own choices into part of her identity.

“How could I ask that of him?” Arya asked. “After I made it so clear that I wouldn’t marry him? Just tell him, what, that I changed my mind?”

“ _Yes!_ ” Sansa exclaimed. “That’s _exactly_ what you do! I’m not saying it will be easy, but if this is something that you both want, then it’s worth it. Seven hells, Arya, when have you ever let fear hold you back from something you truly desire?”

Arya stared at her sister, dumbstruck by this outburst. “Did proper Queen Sansa really just curse at me?”

“And I’ll do it again if you don’t pull your head out of your ass.”

“Well, alright then.”

“I just want you to be happy,” Sansa sighed. “Our family has suffered so much hardship these past years, and I would hate to see you deny yourself happiness out of stubbornness. And I see you, so in love with this man you’ve found, and I _know_ that you want more. If I was mistaken in my assumptions, then please forgive me; but I don’t think I am.”

“You really are insufferable sometimes, you know that?” Arya said. “The smartest, nosiest person I know.”

Sansa shrugged. “I can live with that. So, what are you going to do now?”

“I think,” Arya said, a smile growing as she made up her mind. “I have to go find Gendry.”

Turning their horses around, they started back for Winterfell, riding in utter silence: Arya was intent on her new mission, and Sansa didn’t feel the need to say anything else. Her work here was done.

\---

Once they passed through the Hunter’s Gate, Arya wasted no time, passing her horse and bird off to some servants. As she walked away she could feel Sansa’s satisfied smile burning a hole in her back, but she paid it no mind as she made her way across the courtyard.

Gendry was right where he’d said he would be, sequestered away in the smithy. He didn’t have much time to smith anymore, what with his days now being filled by a lord’s duties, but when he had the chance he liked to spend some time working at his old trade. When Arya had asked him why he’d choose to spend his leisure time in the stifling heat of a forge, he’d joked that it was just so he could prove he was still one of the best in the trade. 

The truth, he admitted later, was that he found the work genuinely relaxing. Now that they weren’t under threat of imminent war, he could focus on the more creative side of his craft, making pieces that were not only functional but beautiful. Smithing didn’t have the same kind of pressure that ruling did; if he made a mistake, he could melt the metal down and start again.

As was the case with ruling, if Arya messed this up, there would be no easy fix. This could permanently upset the balance of their relationship, the comfortable, easy dynamic they’d built since she returned from sea. But, when had Arya Stark ever been the type of girl to settle for something comfortable, when she knew she wanted more?

Gendry had found a quiet corner of the deserted smithy and was repairing weapons and armor that had been damaged during the tourney. He was still wearing the crown she had won him, the flowers still beautiful despite having begun to droop from the hot forge. As Arya crossed the smithy, Gendry looked up from his work and immediately spied her. The blue winter roses made the blue of his eyes even more intense, and Arya steeled herself, certain that he somehow knew what she was there for.

“How was your hunt?” he asked, setting aside his work.

“Didn’t catch anything.” Gendry smirked at her response.

“Oh? You can defeat the best fencers in the country with ease, but it’s the little mice that get the better of you?” he teased, and for a moment Arya forgot her nerves.

“Sparrowhawks are used for catching quail, not mice,” she corrected. “But, anyways, I didn’t catch anything because I didn’t try. I got caught up talking with Sansa.”

“Must’ve been an interesting conversation.” Gendry said offhandedly, as he went about cleaning his workspace and putting away his tools.

“To put it simply. We talked a lot, about how far we’ve all come and what the future might hold… what we wish for it to be.”

Gendry gave a noncommittal grunt at that, to show he was still listening as he continued tidying up. Arya felt her heart in her throat, the pulse of it the beating wings of a trapped bird, and she took a deep breath to steady herself.

“You asked me once to be your wife.” He froze at that; Arya found herself deeply thankful that he was still turned around, so she didn’t have to see his face.

“That I did.”

“I said no.”

“So I recall.” 

“And you never asked me again.” He half-turned as she said this, the posture of a man who was still debating whether to stand his ground or cut his losses and flee.

“Arya, if you have something to say, just say it-”

“Ask me again.”

“ _What?_ ” he gaped at her. Fists clenched at her sides, Arya barreled onward, half-forgotten snippets of what she’d planned to say racing through her head.

“I’m not good at these kinds of- of flowery speeches, sounding nice… that’s always been Sansa’s thing. I’m not her, I can’t be.”

Gendry quirked a little smile at that. “Well thank the gods for that. Cause it’s you I want, not your sister.”

“I’m still not really used to that; people wanting me, for me.” Arya admitted. With anyone else she might have tried to play that off as a joke, but not with Gendry. She had never known anyone else who made her feel so strong, but so very vulnerable.

“Marriage isn’t really something highborn girls look forward to- or at least I didn’t,” she continued. “It’s something expected, this enormous change that you have no say in. You’re paired with some stranger, and the moment you’re married you lose your family, your home, your very name. You become someone else entirely.”

“Arya, I would never-” he started.

“I know,” she cut him off, fighting to keep her voice level. “I know, just, let me say my piece, please. When you first asked me to marry you, after the battle, I panicked. All I could think of was how being married would make me into something I’m not. But that was just an old fear I hadn’t learned to let go of yet. Because when I’m with you, I don’t feel like I’m losing a part of myself: I feel like I’m becoming the person I was always meant to be.

“I can’t be some perfect lady, running a castle while you go off and have adventures. And, speaking of adventures, I wouldn’t stop going off either; I have lots of journeys I want to make, and I want you there for some, but others I have to take on my own. But I want- I _need_ you to know, that I will _always_ come back to you. You’re my family, and my home, and I want to make it so in every possible way.”

Despite her earlier concern that she wouldn’t be able to speak, the words had flown out so quickly Arya barely registered what words she said the moment they left her mouth. As she rambled on, Gendry moved until their bodies were barely a hands length apart.

“And this is what you want, yeah? To get married?” he asked hesitantly. “You’re not just saying this cause you think it’s what I want to hear?”

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. His broad hands crept up to cup her face, the rough texture of his callouses somehow impossibly soft against her cheeks.

“Then yes. Gods yes, Arya, let’s get married!”

They both surged forward, mouths coming together in a messy, perfect crash. Arya would have gladly continued, but Gendry suddenly pulled away.

“Wait, what am I doing? I still haven’t asked you!”

“You don’t really need to, we just agreed-”

“No no no, I have to do this properly!” he cleared his throat and, taking her hand in his, gave her his best lordly bow. “Arya Stark, Princess of the North, Lady of Winterfell, Hero of the Long Night, captain of the _Lady Cat_ , slayer of wights and explorer of distant lands-”

“I don’t have _that_ many titles!”

“Shh, yes you do, and if you don't let me finish then I'll make up some more right now! Arya, will you do me the greatest honor of marrying me?”

“Yes,” she croaked out, having lost the battle against her tears. “Yes!”

This time when they kissed, she found herself laughing into his mouth with unrestrained happiness. Her girlhood self would never have imagined being this happy about getting married; but then again, she could never have imagined meeting someone like Gendry. 

It was Arya who pulled away from the kiss first, as she was intent on getting them back to their rooms so they could properly celebrate their future union.

“Just so we’re clear, I’m keeping my last name.”

“Wouldn’t have expected anything else.”

\---

With her nameday celebration successfully concluded and her guests sent off to bed with full bellies, Sansa and Theon retired to the queen’s chambers. Having thoroughly exhausted herself exploring her new home, Pearl lay sprawled at the foot of the bed in a deep sleep. Sansa settled down at her vanity to brush out her hair and ready it for bed, while Theon changed into his sleep clothes.

“So, Brienne and Willas Tyrell…” she said casually.

“They make an interesting pair, I’ll give you that. But they aren’t the couple I’m most interested in hearing about.”

“Yes, alright,” she laughed. “It’s official: Arya and Gendry will be married in two days hence. It’ll mean delaying their return to Storm’s End, but they’re confident that Ser Davos can continue taking care of the keep just fine.”

“Two days? That’s not nearly enough time for Jon to make the journey here from King’s Landing.”

“Indeed.” Sansa responded tersely. “Arya said nothing about him, and I thought it wise not to ask. I’m not sure if she is simply too eager to wait, or if she doesn’t want him there. She’s asked me to give her away, so at least that part is taken care of.”

“I never thought I’d see a day where Arya and Jon weren’t on speaking terms.”

“She’s tried to reach out, he’s the one who decided it was more important to stay in the South with his dragon queen.” Sansa griped. She and Theon had been in Winterfell when Daenerys brought down the Red Keep with her remaining dragons- she engrossed in caring for her people after the battle with the dead, he still abed with his wounds- but Arya had witnessed the devastation for herself. Jon had stood by his queen, saying that the destruction had been necessary to defeat Cersei; it had been yet another brick in the wall between him and Arya, as he devoted himself further to Daenerys and pulled away from the Starks and the North.

It was deeply concerning to Sansa, not only because of the love she’d come to have for her brother: should Jon give into Daenerys’ marriage proposals, the Southern lords would never accept a bastard as king. They would have to choose either to weather the upheaval, which would worsen the already fragile state of Daenerys’ new reign, or admit the truth of Jon’s parentage. If Sansa’s information was correct, the latter seemed the more likely. And when the Faith learned that there was yet _another_ incestuous Targaryen couple on the throne… may the gods have mercy on them all.

Theon had moved to sit on the bed with Pearl, his fingers buried in her thick ruff. The little pup slept on, oblivious to the discussion around her. From where she sat at her vanity, Sansa could see him in her mirror.

“Since the wedding will be at Winterfell, that means the ceremony will be held in the godswood, yes?” Theon’s voice was steady, but when their reflections’ eyes met in the mirror she could see the concern and fear that lingered just below the surface.

“The thought does give me pause,” she admitted. “But, it’ll be nice to have some good memories of the place, don’t you agree? It has always been our family’s godswood: I won’t let him take that from us.” 

As she finished tying off her sleeping plait, Theon got up and came over to stand behind her. His hands rested ever so gently on her shoulders, then drifted down her arms to catch her hands where they worried with the hair tie. The sturdy span of his torso pressed against her back, as he buried his nose in her hair and kissed her temple. Closing her eyes, Sansa sighed and leaned back against him, their night shirts thin enough that she could feel his heat seep into her skin.

“As you wish, love,” he murmured, giving her hands a light squeeze. “We’ll make sure it’s a lovely wedding, so lovely the bards will have to write a new song just about the marriage of the Little Wolf to the Baratheon Bull.” 

Sansa giggled at the thought. “I’m certain Arya will be _thrilled_ to hear that.”

“Wait until she learns that you made that capelet of hers specifically to be her wedding cloak!”

“Oh, she’ll be fine with it, eventually. She’s wanted this for a while now; she just needed a bit of a push to realize it.”

Theon pressed another kiss to her hair before moving to sit on the bench next to her; the vanity bench wasn’t really made to seat two, but they squeezed in close, him with either leg thrown over the bench so she could rest in the space between them.

“Sans, not that I doubt your commitment to Arya’s happiness,” he said gently. “But, am I correct in thinking there is some other reason behind your desire to see them married?”

She sighed, bemoaning the loss of the soft moment they’d been having.

“Sometimes I think you know me too well,” she said. “Assuming my sources are correct-”

“Which they always are.”

“That’s what I fear.” She clutched tight to Theon’s hands, seeking the strength he provided. “Daenerys is with child. This babe will be heir to the Five Kingdoms; she’ll be pressed to make the child legitimate by marrying Jon, and maybe even reveal his parentage. The Dornish are already furious that she let the North and the Iron Islands go but still holds her claim on them. If it’s revealed that Jon is proof that Rhaegar Targaryen dishonored Princess Elia, it could invite them to secede. And if that happens…”

“Just like the Red Keep.” Theon whispered, horror dawning.

“I fear what Daenerys will do to keep Dorne in her kingdom.” Sansa confirmed grimly. “She’s spread too thin, what with her other territories across the sea. If she asks for assistance, I won’t send our people to fight her battles. Should the worst come to pass, at least if Arya and Gendry are married, they won’t end up on opposite sides of a war.”

“Daenerys can’t make Gendry send his forces against us if there’s an existing marriage alliance between the Stormlands and the North. You’re already planning how to protect Arya, just in case.”

“The pack _will_ survive.” Sansa said firmly. “I hope my plans will be unnecessary in the end; but I will not be the Queen who Knelt, and I won’t let our House end here.”

“It won’t,” Theon swore to her; though he had no guarantee of what the future held, she took comfort from his faith. “Come what may, we’ll face it together.”

Sansa cupped his face in her hands and drew him into a searing kiss. Theon gripped her by the waist and pulled her closer in between his open legs.

“Come to bed,” she whispered against his lips. “Enough of this talk. We’re alive, and I want to feel you in me.”

“My fingers are a bit cramped from the tourney,” he replied, the hint of a smile beginning to emerge. “I’ll have to use my tongue instead.” She pressed her front against his, the material of her shift so light he could feel her breasts against his chest.

“That’s more than fine by me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peregrine falcons were the type of hunting bird reserved for European royalty; they're a fantastic bird for falconry, and are known for having an incredibly versatile hunting style. Sparrowhawks are smaller and more difficult to train; in Slavic mythology, they perch on graves to signify that the person was murdered.
> 
> Obviously, there are several differences between my story and the series finale, such as the inclusion of the valonquar prophecy. I also dabbled a bit with the politics of this new Westeros, which I hope makes sense to all of you and was enjoyable to read!

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed reading this fic and were hoping for more, my fic ["Metal Bones and Wolves' Teeth"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20321578/chapters/48180538) is an unofficial follow up!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at gingersprites, hit me up there for more of my bullshit.


End file.
